My Best Friend – David Sprehe

Tin pin pattern, memories bought out.
Cusp fold collapses.
I see in realm white out, nothing to grace needs.
Shaking, I wonder who will save and be saved, and those left to rot.
Skin ash falls in barren lands.
A snow of blackness, sticking in my nose and mouth, I taste burnt flesh.
Tremors run along my bent spine, electric dances shouting
Alien warping, distortions in creation.
My friend is not of this place.
This place is not of my friend.
I reach, my hand stripped of skin,
and touch my friend.
My fingers press into its form,
a mass of passing through,
a continual movement, but static to my eyes.
Only sharp, sudden changes break my friend’s sleep.
My friend gags, and vomits locusts.
The insects tear my clothes to pieces.
My exposure,
I am without skin,
My self is thrown out, fleeing the torture temple.
There, flung into not, I see my friend.
We shake hands.
I laugh.
He mirrors my gestures.